


Picking Up Pieces

by fem_castielnovak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous Season, Artist Dean, BM Moment, Brother Feels, Canon Compliant, Castiel in the Bunker, Driving, First Kiss, Gen, Human Castiel, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Reminiscing, Road Trips, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5867413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/fem_castielnovak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for the November15 <a href="http://spnwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/">SPN Writing Challenge</a> prompt "Road Trip"</p><p>A road trip without a hunt is unprecedented for the brothers. But they make the circuit of the storage units they've accumulated over the years to empty them out. It should be relaxing - more so than a hunt, at least. Because, in theory, rooms full of their own possessions aren't going to hold surprises.<br/>Retracing your steps is <em>supposed</em> to bring back memories ... It's the ones you bring back home that make it more difficult.</p><p>Destiel with platonic Brother-Feels bonding moments</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Up Pieces

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> This is probably one of my favorite things that I've ever written.
> 
>  

 

 

A Road Trip.

It isn’t traveling with nowhere else to be. It isn’t their typical job venture or research run.  
It’s an honest-to-God Road Trip.  
_Because_ , Dean thinks, When it’s over, they will have a home that they will be heading back to.  
This will only be a first run. There’s going to have to be more than this one. But this is the one that starts it all and that’s why it feels like he’s on the brink of something.

 

Sam reaches for the car door handle and pops it. He goes to get inside and he thinks that he can remember what it felt like that first night – when Dean showed up and they left to go find their father. He remembers that getting in felt like – _was; had been_ – visiting a place he’d once lived in and called home.  
As Dean backs out of the garage and pulls onto the dirt drive, Sam sits on the idea of this black hunk of metal and plastic being his home. How it always will be. And how when they’re done and he gets back to this garage, he’ll open the Impala’s door again and step out of one home into another.

 

Cas left his room long enough to see them off. _His room_. Not the one they’d set up before he’d been forced to leave. This one is closer to Dean and Sam – sort of in the middle of both rooms. _A fresh start_ , he had thought as he arranged it.

Cas has started a list in his head of ways to keep busy while the brothers are gone. When the packages begin to arrive he’ll deal with them. But in the meantime he might help out with the house work – he’s become rather good at laundry and he and Sam do the dishes together. He’s also gotten used to helping Dean fix dinner but he thinks to refrain from cooking a lot without anyone else to help guide him or keep an eye on the stove. Then of course there’s reading, or cataloguing the archives, or editing misinformation in the Men of Letters’ documents …  
He isn’t sure how much of that list will distract him from waiting.

 

**...**

 

             **Lebanon, KS to Bentonville, AR – 6h 52min**

It should take them somewhere around 7 hours to make it to Bentonville but Dean gets them there in just under 6 and a half. They’d left early in the morning so it’s mid-afternoon when they pull into the motel parking lot.

“Check in?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, I’ll meet you over there.” Sam grabs both duffels from the back before heading up to the motel office.

Dean pulls out of the parking lot and makes two lefts in rapid succession. It brings him to the storage unit in the next complex over from the motel.

 

When Dean rolls up the door, the smell of cloves and mothballs hits him in a wave. There must be some ritual stuff in this one. He drops the stack of flattened boxes he’d been carrying and whips out his flashlight. With ease, he picks his way across the room and reaches for the high ball chain, struggling briefly to get a grip on the short length. The hanging bulb flickers to life with a few good tugs and it washes the room with surprising incandescence.

He surveys the space and tries to remember if he’d come here with his dad before.

There are a lot of free-floating objects and only a couple of overstuffed boxes lining the shelves. He moves around trying to discern where they’re going to start.

 

Sam comes in while he’s crouched at the back, already started on packing up a box.

“Dean?”

“Back here, Sammy.”

Sam rounds a shelf carrying a legal pad. It looks thin and flimsy in his large hands.

“This one’s a junker,” Dean comments, jostling the box at his feet by accident.

“The whole place?”

“Yeah, I figure we can get one big box of useful stuff. Send it to Jody.”

“Everything else to the bunker?”

“Yep.”

Sam leans over the box beside Dean and catalogues the contents. When it’s full, they’ll note where it’s going then number the paper record and the box before taping it up.

“Hand me the stuff off the top shelf,” Dean mumbles from the floor. Sam doesn’t even have to stretch to reach the precariously perched items. 

This one is going to be quick and painless. 

 

 

             **Bentonville, AR to Waynesboro, MS – 9h 11min**

Sorting through memories is not an activity Sam has been looking forward to. He knows it isn’t exactly something Dean’s been excited about. Maybe that’s why they’ve put it off for so long.

His curiosity and the necessity of the task are overriding most of the discomfort but they’re only on the second stop. There’s plenty of time for him to come to regret this. But again, he comes back to the necessity of it. With a home – and one built for archiving, no less – it’s pointless to maintain all the once-convenient, now unhelpfully spaced out storage units they’ve got scattered across the continental U.S.  
Unloading them all – boxing up their contents and shipping them cross-country for further cataloguing - means a greater convenience should they require any of the items they’re gathering. Not to mention, one less expense they have to keep paying.

The ones destined for Sioux Falls, care of Jody Mills, are things they might actually need soon. They get top priority and, so that they can actually be found and used, they’ll be put into order and stored at Bobby’s place when the two of them make their last stop there before heading home.

The unsorted junk goes to the bunker to be stacked in boxes within rooms full of other unsorted junk.

It’s the next project they’re going to take on in between hunts: organizing and expanding the Men of Letters archives.

 

When Sam had first proposed the project, Dean had been apprehensive. But then Cas piped up in support and the both of them were making valid points, so Dean let go of his unspoken objections.  
As he filters through another load of items, Dean pictures Cas sorting through it all; how good he’d gotten at it with just the stuff they’ve already begun to work on at the bunker. He’d volunteered to stay behind just for that purpose. Dean was privately grateful, the sorting was the worst part – trying to sync up with the system the Men of Letters already have in place, figuring out which location an object or file best fit in. Dean picks up a talisman and thinks of how Cas will probably get distracted by something every time he goes into one of those boxes.

 

The post office is just around the corner from the storage unit. It takes two runs to transport everything. There’s a diner across the street where they grab supper.  
The waitress is flirty and the coffee is gritty but the food gets served fast and hot.  
Bentonville is quiet and even the nine hour drive to Mississippi is looking appealing to Sam. He just wants to get back on the road and get moving again.

Sam offers to drive for a couple of hours before Dean has an opportunity to suggest they get a motel room. He shrugs and assents, around a bite of chicken-fried steak.

 

 

             **Waynesboro, MS to Aiken, SC – 7h 25 min**

“What’s the most popular pickup line in Mississippi?”

Sam wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist and looks over at his brother, “Are you actually asking me or is that a rhetorical question?”

“ _’Hey, sweetheart, nice tooth!’_ ” Dean responds, answering himself with a shit-eating grin.

Sam rolls his eyes and turns back to the box of invaluable junk before him.

“Why do ducks fly upside down over Mississippi?”

Sam sighs but makes eye contact which is enough of a response for Dean.

“There’s nothing worth crapping on.”

Sam holds back a smile, it would only encourage him. “Where are you getting these?”

Dean holds up a little leather notebook. It looks crude and hand-bound. Sam comes over for a closer look.

“What is it?”

“It’s my first hunter’s journal,” Dean says with a scoff, “Well, my attempt at one.”

Sam takes it from him, “When did you make this?”

“Remember spending the summer here in ‘85?”

Sam remembers. Well, he remembers hearing about it. And something like vague images of sunny forests and warm campfires on hot nights.

“I did it during arts and crafts.”

 

Dad had sent them to a summer camp run by a hunter buddy’s wife. She had watched Sam while Dean went about the activities with the other children. It was free and it kept the incredibly young boys out of John’s hair for a week and a half. The place was one of Sam’s earliest memories. From the few, weak impressions he has, it was kinda nice.

 

“That summer was shit.”

Dean apparently thinks of it less fondly.  
Sam has no way of knowing it was the first time Dean had been well and truly disappointed in other people – shattered to be cut off from a place where he’d found comfort and excitement. Dad had come early for them so he didn’t even have the closure of last day pleasantries or get anyone’s address to send post cards to (the idea was romantic at best but he would have at least liked the potential of it). He was the blossoming extrovert, torn from some of his very first real friends and forced back into isolation on the road with only his father and barely talking baby brother for company.

Sam flips through the pages. There are drawings, and notes, and rather detail-oriented descriptions of friends, activities, and the camp itself. The pictures outweigh the words. Everything is misspelled and a lot of the letters are backwards – a combination of Dean’s youth and dyslexia. But all of it is expressive and open.  
Dean shifts beside him, rifling through papers and looking up at Sam every now and then to watch him read.

Sam makes an appraising face and nods his head, “You should keep it.”

Dean looks down at the little book and shrugs. But when Sam hands it back, he tosses it into one of the boxes they're taking home.

 

 

             **Aiken, SC to Hinton, WV – 6h 37 min**

Sam likes the Carolinas. He likes the way the mountains roll and their shadows cast over the highway. He likes the way Dean looks more relaxed and natural surrounded by forests and the curving rises of the roads as he drive. He likes the way Dean rolls down the windows to let in the cool air, and how he teases Sam for leaning his head out the window like a dog, and the stupid faces they make at each other while they try to pop their ears, and how they sing louder with the radio. 

Sam takes deep breaths whenever they get out of the car for a rest stop.

 

They certainly could be driving faster, though Dean isn’t exactly feather-footed on the gas pedal. But compared to when they’re on a hunt, they’re taking a leisurely pace, spending excessive amounts of time in motel rooms, having multiple, slow cups of coffee with breakfast, and taking long lunch breaks.  
It’s because they don’t need to be fast about this. There’s no urgency. No hunt to get to, no one’s life on the line. So sure, Dean could be driving ten to thirteen hours a day, but he doesn’t have to.

And it’s good that they aren’t. They both need a night’s break between the internal strain that sorting through each locker stirs up. 

 

Hinton’s nice.  
It makes Sam think about going on vacation here. The both of them coming back with Cas and seeing what the town has to offer. Going hiking, and swimming somewhere, meeting people when there aren’t case details to discuss.  
He feels _ready_ to empty this storage locker.

The eagerness, he finds, makes a difference. It doesn’t take as long to sort everything because his focus is high. Dean seems a bit tired but the joking and work ethic standards are being met so Sam deems that nothing needs to be said.

Books are stacked in neat rows and make up the principle components of the room’s contents. Files and notepads and papers fill the boxes stacked on the floor around the shelves.

Stuck between two shelves, Sam finds a book on angels and saintly spirits. This is by far the most shocking thing they’ve found. He’d never expected his father to put any stock into Abrahamic lore. Certainly not enough to own such an impressive tome. It feels expensive and Sam’s willing to bet it’s a very rare edition. He puts it in a Sioux Falls box.

 

This locker was more orderly than any of the others, but that only means everything is condensed, and more items are allowed to fill more of the space.  
By the time they’ve wrapped up, the town has shut down. They’ll have to skip dinner and rely on whatever snacks are left in the Impala.

As they head back to the motel for the night, Sam pats his upper thigh nervously.  
His grandfather’s gold watch and chain burns a hole in his pocket. It had been in a dark red container on a shelf near the front of the locker. Sam had caught sight of it, and wondered what the small, pretty box could possibly be doing in this storage locker. Curiosity compelled him to open it, look over the cheap velvet and bright gold and read the engraving: “To Henry on Our Wedding; Love, Millie”. Dean had shrugged and kept moving so Sam lifted it from the case and slipped it into his jeans pocket.

Maybe the burning will fade the further they get from the empty storage unit.

 

 

             **Hinton, WV to Pontiac, IL – 9h 16 min**

The sweat on the back of his neck cools rapidly in the night air. With a huff he sits on the elevated stoop that keeps the walkway a few inches above the asphalt of the parking lot.

Dean hefts the sketchpad in his hand and flips it over – once, twice.  
He doesn’t remember when he’d last used it. Probably sometime before high school.  
The paper has yellowed but the graphite is as shiny and grey as ever, if a little smudged on a few sheets. Most of the pages at the front have fingerprints pressed and smeared accidentally in the blank spaces. Dean puts his own fingers beside and then over them in comparison. He traces lightly over the lines of the sketches.

The earliest pictures are simple but … good. Dean didn’t remember having this much talent as an eight year old. It’s line art of birds and cars and dogs and hunting weapons. The lines are messy and dark but the shapes they create are more accurate than not.  
His first attempts at shading are like outlines for jack-o’-lantern carvings. For the life of him Dean can’t remember why he bothered to continue trying to learn it. He was really bad at first.  
But now, he keeps flipping the pages and watches the lines become softer, more subtle, and the edges of everything smooth out. Guns and machetes become landscapes; pets turn into people, then monsters.

The little date of each piece is marked carefully in the bottom right corner. He’s surprised to see multiple pages from the summer before his sophomore year. He doesn’t remember having the charcoal he’d apparently used. It seems like he’d gotten his hands on a single stick of it and used the whole thing up in the span of a few days.

He remembers the very last picture when he looks at it long and hard. It’s a fully shaded picture of Sam, and Dean instantly decides that this one is his favorite. It’s by far his best.

The five or six empty pages after that, at the very back of the book leave him wanting. He has the urge to fill them. With what, he does not know. Not yet.

The lone streetlamp guarding the parking lot hovers directly over the Impala. The light glints golden off her hood and highlights every contour immaculately. Dean stares at it, absently palming his phone.

He opens Cas’s contact.

It rings three times before there’s an answer.

“Dean,” Cas answers warmly.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean lets some reciprocal warmth trickle through, “How’s it going? You holdin’ the fort down alright?”

“It’s rather quiet without you and Sam but yes, I’m managing well.” There’s some rustling of what could be paper, or perhaps some foodstuff in the pantry. “Some of the packages have begun to arrive. I’ve received several messages from the post office.”

“Good. Fair warning, you’re gonna have to make more than one trip, even with a lot of trunk space.”

“I haven’t picked any of them up yet, but today I finished cleaning out one of the store rooms.”

“Hey! That’s great!” His pride is audible.

“Well it only made sense. Sending them here doesn’t do us much good if we have no place to put any of the boxes.”

Dean chuckles.  
There’s more movement from Cas’s end and something bumps against the mouthpiece of the receiver.

“I’m going to go get them tomorrow.”

“Make sure you lock up and don’t leave anything running when you go out.”

“Yes, _Dean_." Cas sighs, "I’ll thank you to not be so patronizing with me.”

Dean laughs softly and it tapers off into a sigh, “Ah, damn.”

“What?”

“I really … I want to come home to you.” Dean looks up at the orange-yellow streetlamp again. It makes the sky behind it look purple in comparison. There’s a beat. He hears Cas inhale.

“You’ll be back at the bunker soon enough.”

“No. No, I want …” he swallows, “I want to come home to you.”  
He repeats the words like their meaning will change without any effort from him.

“I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

Dean licks his lips.

Cas’s breath hitches, “But I- I’ll be waiting for you … Whatever you mean by that, I’ll be waiting.”

Dean purses his mouth and takes a shaky breath.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night, Cas.”

 

 

             **Pontiac, IL to Duluth, MN – 7h 45 min**

Sam had seen his brother on the porch last night.  
The day had worn on them both. They had eaten dinner late, and planned on sleeping in and eating breakfast in town the next day.  
When they got back to the motel, Sam stole a shower while Dean tended to the Impala. He must have come back in to wash his hands and get something from his bag but he fiddled around in it for a while. The room was dark and Sam was in bed when he watched light peek through the crack in the door as Dean got up to go outside.  
The curtains were parted enough for him to have a well-lit view of his brother sitting down on the stoop outside their room.  
He’d watched expressive waves wash over Dean’s face, ebbing and flowing, bleeding into one another as seamlessly as the unheard conversation he was having on the phone.

 

On the drive from West Virginia, he had wondered what it would be like – what Dean would be like when they arrived in town. He thought about it from the time Dean woke him and told him to take over, and the entire rest of the drive to Pontiac as Dean slept next to him in the passenger seat.

He almost brings it up, now, hours after they’ve finished their business and are out of the city. They’re pulling over in a field halfway to Duluth. But Dean absolutely collapses the second the engine is off. So Sam lets him have his reprieve.

 

Duluth feels busy and Dean thinks he should be unsettled.  
He isn’t.

They grab breakfast at an ungodly hour before checking into the motel. It’s good that they do, because when they’re trying to find the storage unit, traffic is being diverted and they get lost for a couple of hours.

Any frustration the two of them had as a side effect from enduring the pile-up is overcome by focus as they set to work dismantling the interior of the locker.

 

In this one, Sam finds a shoebox full of supplies he had once used to try and make Christmas presents for Dean and Dad. He’d picked up most of the contents from school and some from Bobby’s house. It looks like there are the remnants of a few dreamcatchers, some keychains, and a picture frame.  
Part of Sam wants to bring them home to finish them. Another part knows he won’t ever actually do it.  
He takes out the unpainted frame and tosses the rest.

 

Paying off the account at this storage facility had felt like closure.

Waiting in line at the post office is a transition – and a relaxing one at that. Sam can’t read Dean’s face as he goes between standing patiently and toying with his phone but he thinks to himself that this waiting is good. He doesn’t want to spend six hours driving with that less-than-settled feeling he’d had as he handed the storage unit owner the cash.

They overnight the boxes headed to Sioux Falls and ship the rest economy-class to Lebanon.

 

 

             **Duluth, MN to Sioux Falls, SD – 6h 03 min**

Jody’s invited them to dinner.

Sam is certain that once she’s got them over her threshold, she’ll fill them with beer and good food and insist that they stay the night.

They won’t protest.

Sam thinks that this drive might be the longest one yet. They aren’t on the final stretch by any means but he’s still processing it as being very close to the end. It makes the trip excruciating.

 

They hit Sioux Falls late in the afternoon. Sam calls Jody to tell her they’ll be there soon. As he expected, she tells him that they should go ahead bring their bags in when they arrive.

The sun is almost fully set when they get to her house. Dean picks up a package from the top of a pile sitting on the porch and sees it’s one of theirs.

“Huh. ‘S from Pontiac. I wonder-“

“Well hey there strangers,” Jody greets them, pulling the door wide. “Come on in.” Sam picks the duffels back up now that Dean’s got his arms full of boxes.

Jody closes the door and turns to them, “Now put that all down and gimme a hug.” Sam smiles and they both acquiesce.

She looks at the stack of packages Dean brought in, “Any of that for me?”

“’Fraid not. You got a place I can put ‘em for now?”

“I’ve got a guest room full of them. But there should be just enough space left to squeeze those in.”

The room really is full to bursting. Sam didn’t think they’d shipped this many boxes here. He can’t imagine what the bunker looks like.

The bed, thankfully, is empty and Jody says that one of them can sleep there. Dean volunteers for couch duty, for which Sam (as usual) is grateful.

 

 

Dean wakes feeling surprisingly cozy to a room full of cool, dim sunlight. It’s a novel experience for him, one he hasn’t had in a long time. Outside, the skies are appropriately grey. Appropriate, at least, for what they’re going to spend the day doing. The thought actually makes Dean curl in on himself and increases the want to stay in bed all day.  
But just the idea that he’d feel that way startles him; enough so to make him kick himself out from under the covers and pull his pants on so he can go start breakfast.

 

Sam doesn’t like driving in the rain.  
Today, Sam is going to have to make at least four trips back and forth from Jody’s house over to Bobby’s place. In the rain.

Protecting the cardboard boxes of paper and rustable metals is going to be a pain in the ass.

 

This “actual system” nonsense is also a pain in the ass. Dean says so repeatedly. They know Bobby’s library well but it’s finding places to fit everything and having to remember where they put what doesn’t fit, that’s causing the trouble.  
Sam doesn’t want to think about how much more difficult sorting the Men of Letters stuff will prove to be once they really get into it.  
Mismanaged store-rooms are full to bursting with poorly arranged items and boxes and files taking up more space than necessary.

He sighs and hears Dean give an echo of it in the other room.

 

Lightning streaks the sky in the distance.

 

 

             **Sioux Falls, SD to Lebanon, KS – 5h 48 min**

It hasn’t stopped raining when they finish late that night. They go back to Jody’s for dinner because they had deemed it necessary to work through lunch. When they’re done eating, the brothers do the dishes. The three of them sit around talking, waiting another hour to see if the rain stops but it doesn’t. And by then it’s ten o’clock.

They don’t spend a second night at Jody’s and Dean’s glad no one asked him to. Sam hadn’t said anything but privately, he’d felt the itch to keep going. And Jody, for all her hospitality, didn’t press them.

It’s still raining when they pass the Sioux Falls city limits.

Dean’s sure they can make the six hour trip but they end up pulling over a little after two in the morning.

 

When Sam wakes up it’s still dark out. He peeks over the front seat and sees his brother’s silhouette sitting on the hood of the car. He sits up fully to stretch and his back pops.

The car door doesn’t squeak when he opens it. His footsteps are heavy – they’re always heavy, Dean complains about it – and the dewy grass squeaks where the rubber soles press wetly into it.

Dean is absorbed in his thoughts, or in the night sky. Sam can’t tell. He slides on the hood of the car and it shifts Dean partially from his distraction, choosing to focus on Sam in his periphery. But Sam doesn’t realize. He’s had a lifetime of catching Dean’s focus, it’s all he knows.

Sam looks up at the stars, following his brother’s gaze. He picks out the constellations Dean taught him, then others he taught himself after his interest had been sparked. He spots a couple of planets but he has no idea which ones they could be. It’s dark enough to see the big stuff but there’s a fair hue on the horizon washing out anything too small. It leaves gaps in the sky.

Sam wonders what time it is. He hadn’t checked his phone and he doesn’t want to bother with it now. He wonders how long Dean’s been out here.

 

They sit.  
Before them, the sun rises; pink and glorious. The rest of the heavenly bodies fade out a few at a time.  
Sam is glad for moments like these that he gets to spend with Dean. When it’s quiet and familiar but not something he’s lived through before.

They’re content.

 

Dean pulls back onto the highway slowly, like he’s letting himself adjust back to being on asphalt in motion beneath their wheels instead of still grass and earth.

The clock says 7:18 when Sam checks.

 

They don’t stop for breakfast. They’re only two hours from the bunker and Dean’s running on just over four solid hours.

“I’m good to go,” he tells Sam, “I just want to get home.”

 

**...**

 

Cas has breakfast waiting for them when they arrive. He meets them in the garage, and it’s the first thing he says.

“I made omelets.”

Sam’s pulling his duffel from the back and looks up with a proud grin on his face, “No kidding?”

Cas nods, “With bacon and scallions.”

Sam sniffs in the direction of the garage door, “Wow, it smells delicious. Thanks, Cas.” Sam pats him on the shoulder as he walks towards the beckoning food.

Dean shuts the driver’s side door and ambles slowly around the front of the Impala.

“Are you coming?” Cas asks, approaching him.

Dean shifts from foot to foot, “I gotta unload the car.”

“It can wait.”

Castiel reaches down and takes his hand as if they’ve done this a thousand times before, just this way; for no reason.  
It’s nice to not need a reason.

Dean swallows around a dry mouth and tongue, but he squeezes Cas’s hand. Cas begins to lead him out of the garage.

“After breakfast I want to show you the room I cleared out.”

“You kind of have to if I’m going to unload what we brought from Bobby’s.”

Cas shoots him an irate look and Dean grins, knowing his jibe hit its mark. He nudges Cas’s shoulder, “I’m kidding. I’d be glad to see what you did.”

The kitchen seems miles away for how slowly Dean processes the walk in his head. Cas tightens his grip then drops his hand when they get to the entryway and Dean takes a seat as Cas brings over the two remaining omelet-filled plates.  
Cas pulls out the chair to Dean’s left. Dean’s face warms when he feels a hand slip up his thigh and fit into his own. Cas manages to eat with his left hand and does so gracefully. Dean catches himself watching Cas every now and then.

Sam does too.  
He finishes hoarking down his breakfast in record time and makes a general comment about unpacking as he vacates the dining table.

Cas takes a drink of his juice once he finishes the omelet. Dean scrapes his fork over his empty plate before setting it down. He looks to Cas, who’s watching him. Dean’s tongue flicks out to wet his still-salty lips. He tugs Cas’s hand towards his own chest and leans forward.

Their first kiss tastes like oranges.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, this is one of my favorite pieces.  
> I'd love to expand on it some day and I've got the idea for the directions I'd like to go in but for now this will do.
> 
> The original post is [here](http://fem-castielnovak.tumblr.com/post/134318770005/picking-up-pieces) and my partner was [me-sorta](http://me-sorta.tumblr.com/) who wrote [this lovely fluff ](http://fem-castielnovak.tumblr.com/post/134085032805/road-trip)
> 
> Exits are to your left, your right, and your rear, restrooms are to the front, Kudos and comments are found below, and as always, very appreciated. Thank you for flying Air fem-castielnovak.


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